Guilt
by cost of nothing
Summary: A fallen American heiress-turned-reporter investigates the strange affair. With the help of Christine, will she become a tempting enough pupil to pull the phantom out of hiding? And what will be the consequences of their guilt?
1. Impressions

Guilt

Chapter 1: Impressions

"I suppose you're looking for me," an ancient voice rang out from within the darkened room. A sharp line of light cut across, illuminating the figure on the bed, soon cut off by the young girl's head.

"Madame de Chagny?"

Only the figure's head turned to see her intruder's outline, backlit by the hallway. The figure sighed and sunk further into her pillow, turning her face away.

"I should have known you'd find me eventually, Mademoiselle."

Stepping into the room fully and closing the door behind her, the girl responded, "I don't know what you mean, Madame."

"Don't play coy with me, all of society has heard of the little American heiress playing at reporter, even the disgracing wife of a disgraced vicomte."

The girl sat down at the little bedside table, lighting the lamp. Soundlessly, she pulled out her worn leather notebook and licked the point of the pencil in her hand. "So then I don't suppose you'd mind if I asked you a few questions."

Christine de Chagny winced at the new blinding light. She had been quite comfortable lying in this hole she'd created for herself, and now this little upshot of an American was here to demand answers. Christine turned back towards the offending light to examine this girl.

She saw the polar opposite of herself. True, Christine was still young, but she knew The Ordeal had cost her much of the youth and warmth she had when she was a ballerina in the chorus. The girl in front of her was a year or two younger than herself, but where Christine had been innocent, this girl was disbelieving. The lamplight shone across the bun of old gold that swept away any sense of whimsy from the girl. Christine thought vainly of the contrast it would cast with her own now dull dark brown curls if it were ever pulled down. She had begun to intensely dislike this young woman.

"Why would you _suppose_ I'd answer any of your questions?" _At least she's freckled_, she thought, childishly.

The girl leaned in conspiratorially. "Because we are the same."

"And what would make you think that?"

"We both care about him."

Christine narrowed her eyes at the girl, pursing her lips to make a bitter response, but instead put on the cold socialite face she had developed in the past year.

"And who would you be referring to, Mademoiselle?"

"Why, I thought that would be obvious, Madame de Chagny. I was referring to your former… _instructor_ …your Angel of Music, wasn't it?

Christine gripped the sheets with hands she now regretted having allowed to become feeble. If she'd kept out of her hole, using her hands properly, it would have been the insolent girl's shoulders she now gripped. "He has a name," she stated, her teeth gripped in anger.

"Yes, he does. It was Erik, was it not?"

"If you know all the answers to your questions, why won't you leave me in peace?"

"Because you're the only one with the _true_ answers. I've talked to everyone I could think of; your husband, the Persian fellow, people who were there the night of the disaster. I even had an associate of mine speak with the managers and performers of the opera. But no one can tell me how to find him, how to get him to speak to me when I do, except for you!"

The passion the girl had brought fire to her cheeks, and her clear eyes shone. Again, Christine thought sourly on the contrast between her now deadened self and this girl. "Why would you care to speak to him? Clearly you've heard that he's a calculating murderer?"

"I am completely aware of that, Madame. That is what makes him fascinating. A killer, capable of harming anyone in his path, decides to let his larges obstacle go free. Go free, and take the prize as well! What went wrong could lead to the most captivating story."

"If it is a captivating _story_ you're looking for, I suggest you read the newspapers here."

"But-"

"Mademoiselle, you have taken up quite enough of my time. You said before that you cared for this phantom. If that's true, I suggest you give up your ghost hunt."

Christine rolled over to face the dark side of the room. She saw the light from the lamp disappear, expecting the girl to be gone. But she felt a warm hand on her shoulder.

"All I wanted was to understand. I wanted to help the both of you and myself by telling the human side of what happened, not the monstrous side. An angle never before explored."

"I won't tell you his story, it's not mine to tell."

Christine felt the hand leave her shoulder and heard the rustle of the girl's skirts as she made her way to the door.

"But I won't deprive him of the chance to tell it. He deserves that much." _He deserves some care, even from this creature. _

She could almost feel the girl glowing as she turned back to Christine. "That's wonderful! When can I speak-"

"Ginny! Ginny, Monsieur le Vicomte is requesting our departure."

The girl bit her lip at both the rudeness of her partner and the question left hanging in the air. Christine caught her wrist, pulling her out of discomfort.

"I'm not so fool as to introduce you. But if you return tomorrow, I can teach you to catch his attention, God save you." _God save me _ "The actual introduction will be left to you."

The girl smiled confidently at her. "I can be satisfied with that."

After briefly placing a hand on Christine's, she swiftly exited the room, leading her partner to the exit. She murmured a quick thanks to the vicomte, and exited the de Chagny's townhouse.

Christine sat in her room, mulling over the promise she had just made. A great fear settled over her as she lay. Fear that the girl would end up running from Erik like everyone else in his poor existence. Fear that the girl was really like any other reporter, simply looking for a good story. Fear that, even with all the training Christine would give her, the girl would slip up and find herself at the end of a lasso. She could only hope the girl was as brave as she thought herself.


	2. The Lesson

Early the next morning, Christine awoke. Her night had been filled with torturous dreams of her past. She'd been on that lake once more, tormented by her former maestro. Yet when she looked down at her hands, they were slightly freckled. The hair she could see out of the corner of her eye was blonde. As he harshly pulled her from the boat and forced her to the mirror, the reflection there was not her own. It was the girl's.

With a shudder, she sat up in her bed. For the first time in months she drew her legs, once nimble as any ballerinas, falteringly out from under her covers. She rang for the maid to help her dress for the day, another ritual that had been laid by the wayside over the past few months. As she waited for the servant, who would undoubtedly be unprepared for this change of events, she moved towards the little upright piano she'd insisted upon having in her room when she and Raoul had furnished their Parisian home.

She was pleased with the grace she had upon making her way across the room. If nothing else, at least she still had that. Her fingers brushed the ivory keys gently, not employing enough pressure to actually sound them. She almost didn't dare to. What if her prized little instrument was horrendously out of tune? Chuckling darkly, she chided herself. She knew what instrument she was truly worried about. The girl would have to sing, to be a musician if she were to catch Erik's eye. Christine didn't count on her being a virtuoso just yet. Which meant the girl would require lessons, something that up until a few years ago, Christine would have considered herself capable of. But now… She hadn't truly sung since The Ordeal. A lied here, a chanson there, of course, but even that had trickled off eventually. Christine liked to think it was because of the love she had felt for her new husband and the responsibilities she'd had from the wedding onward. But the responsibilities had ended and the singing had never started up again. Deep down, Christine knew what was wrong. She was scared. Scared of the emotions singing stirred in her, scared of incurring her husband's sorrow should she sing the wrong thing, and now, after years of fear for fear's sake, fear that she could no longer perform. At least not the way she had. At least not the way that had caught Erik's attention all those years ago.  
And that was the point now, wasn't it. To teach the girl to sing. To teach her how to behave to catch his eye. To give him an open, if not necessarily friendly, ear. And maybe to let him have the things she could never have given him.

Or maybe she was just being foolish. Maybe the girl would pass undetected. Maybe she, like so many others like her, would slip unnoticed through the Opera Populaire. Maybe she would react the same way Christine had upon seeing the man behind the mask. Maybe she would pay the consequences Christine never had…  
_Enough of this nonsense_, Christine chided herself. It was exactly this type of thinking that had set Christine in her hole and kept her there for so long. She would be useless no longer. If nothing else, the girl had given her a mission. Hesitantly, Christine laid her fingers in root position. With barely enough power to sound the instrument, she played a major chord. Surprisingly, though no tuner had been in to tend to it, the piano seemed to have held its pitch fairly well. _Now if only I have held out as well as it_, she thought wryly to herself.

The morning passed without excitement. The maid, slightly shocked to see her mistress out of bed, had nonetheless fulfilled her duties admirably. Christine spent the time stretching her fingers, reacquainting them with the topography of the keys. She was pleased with how much of Erik's teaching she'd remembered. Whether a testament to his teaching or her attention, the skills were no less embedded in her mind and in her muscles. By the time the clock showed the appointed hour for the girl's arrival, Christine felt confident in her ability to teach.  
"Excuse me, Madame," her maid called, bobbing a polite curtsey from the doorway, "There's a Mademoiselle Porter to see you."  
Christine's mind struggled for a moment. Who was this now? However, soon her mind sorted itself. She realized she'd never actually heard the girl's name before.  
"Yes, yes, of course, Claire. Please send her in directly." With another curt nod, Claire was gone. Within moments, the girl was in her place. She was tall and regal in a neat fitted blouse and skirt. Though the material was rich, the cut and ever present knob of hair pulled tightly to her head made for an appearance more befitting a school mistress than a journalist.  
"Madame de Chagny, I thank you so much for your time. I'm honored to have this opportunity to speak with you." Ah, there was the reporter. Flattery and pretty phrasing, all empty. Hopefully whatever aspects of Christine's story the girl wrote would have more meaning.

"I assure you, Mademoiselle Porter, the pleasure is all mine," she responded simply, with the polite charm she'd cultivated in her time as a Viscount's wife.  
"Please," the girl added as soon as the words had left Christine's mouth, "Feel free to call me Virginia. I believe in familiarity and I'm not to keen on keeping my father's name."  
This intrigued Christine. Of course, her own circumstances had been a bit unusual. Her father had been her whole world. Therefore a woman with no attachment to her father was astounding to Christine. And a woman trying to distance herself from an old, established family name would certainly be interesting to society.

"I'll keep that in mind," she replied simply, deciding to chew this piece of information over later. Now, they must get to work.  
"Well, Countess, where shall we begin?" the girl asked, taking a seat at Christine's desk and pulling out her worn journal.  
"Do you sing?"  
"Sing?" The question seemed to catch the girl off guard.

"Yes. Or play? Any instruments?"  
"No... Well, yes, I sing a little. But I can't play a thing."

"What about read?"

"Countess, it would be rather difficult to become a journalist without being able to read."

"No, no that's not what I meant," Christine said, trying to hold back the frustration in her voice. "Read music. Notes, clefs, accidentals, things of that nature."

"A little."

"A little?"  
"Enough to get by." It was her pupil's turn to hold back her emotions now. "Look Countess, what does this have to do with anything? I didn't come here for a lesson in the-"  
"You wanted me to teach you to make him speak with you. To make him _want_ to speak with you. There are only two types of people Erik ever speaks with- those who interest him and those who have something he wants. If you have music in you, deep set and strong, you have both."

"I see."

"Good. Now," se said, gliding to her small piano. "We'll see if you truly know enough to get by." The girl set her things aside and joined her.

Christine set her fingers on the keys again. It was a familiar feeling, though having a pupil in front of her was not. For a moment, panic flooded her. Surely, she couldn't know enough to teach another singer, much less bring a beginner to the level of a master teacher. There was just no way. But as she looked down at the piano to tell the girl this, she saw her, for once timid and apprehensive, at the far end of the piano. She knew nothing. She was completely dependent upon Christine to help her. Christine took a deep breath, looked down at the keys, then back at her pupil.

"Stand in the curve of the piano. Think of the piano as your savior, your partner. You want to be connected to it. Now stand straight and breathe from your belly. We'll start on pentascales on the syllable 'la.'"

The girl was good. Not stage ready, to be sure, but passable. Her passagio was expectedly weak and her range needed stretching, but at the core was a warm, sweet sound. Her musicianship was poor, though her listening was almost strong enough to make up for it. Overall she was a good student, especially for a new teacher.

"Alright, we'll stop there for the day. Drink plenty of water. Don't shout. Keep your voice healthy- it wont do to have you harm it before we've even begun."

"Thank you very much, Madame. I won't take up any more of your time. Will I be seeing you tomorrow?"

"Yes, yes of course. Until then, Mademoiselle."

"Until then."

As the girl left, Christine moved back to her bed, collapsing as the stress she had repressed all day washed over her.

* * *

"You seem awfully giddy, Ginny. Is your lead paying off?"

"I've been singing, John. Singing all afternoon!"

"Singing? I thought you had a story here."

"I do, I do. But it will take its time to develop."

"Just so long as it doesn't take too much time, Ginny."


End file.
